I wrap my arms around him, breathing in the familiar scent of his laundry detergent and the faint trace of cigarettes. “I will. I promise.”
When he releases me, I’m surprised to see genuine concern in his eyes.
“You deserve good things, Anya,” he says quietly. “I hope this is one of them.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Thanks, John. For everything.”
He nods once, then backs away. “I’ll wait until your helicopter takes off. Just to make sure you’re really on your way and not being stuffed into the trunk of some mobster’s car.”
I laugh, grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. “Such a gentleman.”
Ten minutes later, I’m being escorted across the helipad toward the waiting helicopter. The rotors are already spinning slowly, creating a wind that whips my hair around my face. A man in a pilot’s uniform stands by the door, greeting me with a respectful nod.
“Ms. Rosewood? I’m Captain Morris. Welcome aboard.”
He helps me into the helicopter with such deference that I feel momentarily disoriented. No one has ever treated me like I’m important before. I walk in, impressed by the interior of the helicopter. It looks plush and comfortable, with leather seats and a mini-fridge in one corner.
“We’ll be in the air for approximately forty-five minutes,” Captain Morris informs me as he helps me buckle my seatbelt. “Please help yourself to refreshments during the flight.”
I nod, still somewhat in shock. Through the window, I can see John standing by his car, watching. I raise my hand in a wave, and he waves back.
Then the engine speeds up, and my stomach lurches as we lift off the ground, the heliport growing smaller beneath us. John becomes a tiny figure, then disappears altogether as we bank and head toward the ocean.
I press my face against the window, watching as the city gives way to coastline, then to open water. The vastness of the ocean below makes me feel tiny and insignificant, yet strangely free.
As the mainland disappears from view, my mind drifts back to the day I came home from first grade to find my mother gone. I remember standing in our small living room, clutching my backpack, confused by my father’s red-rimmed eyes and the strange stillness of the house.
“Where’s Mom?” I’d asked, looking around as if she might pop out from behind the furniture.
My father had knelt down, his hands trembling as they rested on my shoulders. “Mom had to go away for a while, Anya.”
“When is she coming back?”
The look on his face, a mixture of rage, heartbreak, and pity, haunts me to this day. “She’s not, sweetheart.”
That was it. No explanation. No goodbye. Just... gone.
The years that followed blurred together in a haze ofloneliness. My father retreated into himself, working longer hours, speaking less. And when Sharon entered our lives two years later, things only got worse.
Sharon, with her perfectly manicured nails that would dig into my arm when my father wasn’t looking.
“Your father only keeps you because he had to,” she’d whisper when we were alone. And her children watched and learned, excluding me from games, “forgetting” to tell me about family outings, making it clear I was an unwelcome addition to their perfect unit.
I swallow hard, pushing away the memories. Below me, the ocean stretches endlessly, a deep blue expanse of beauty. Ahead, though still too distant to see, lies Wolf Isle and whatever future awaits me there.
Tears prick at my eyes as the reality of my situation hits me.
I have no one. No real family. No home. All I have is a backpack of broken makeup kits and ratty clothes. The loneliness is something I still have to get used to.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe being alone means I’m free to create my own path, to find my own happiness without the weight of others’ expectations or disappointments.
I take a deep breath and wipe away my tears as I vow to myself that I will be successful no matter what.
Two
RYKER
The sun beats down on my shoulders as I stride toward Wolf Isle Hotel, phone pressed to my ear while my packmate, Alaric, drones on about investors and profit margins.
